Page 33

If I don’t finish the bond, Luna dies.

If I do…Idie. Not physically. Just the last piece of me that feels like mine.

No one understands what it means to be Lust—not really. It sounds glamorous, intoxicating. But it’s a prison built oneveryone else’s expectations. You’re only as good as your last performance. And mine? My last wasn’t consensual. It was demanded. Taken. Forced through a bond I didn’t want and couldn’t resist.

And now I’m supposed to pretend like none of that matters. Like I can walk into Luna’s room, smile, and lay myself bare like I’m not already ruined.

He hasn’t said anything, but he’s hovering more than usual. Quiet in ways he never is, and when his chaos goes still, you know something’s broken. I wonder if he’s waiting for me to snap. Or maybe just waiting for me to say it out loud.

That I’m scared.

That I’m not okay.

That I can’t do this without losing what little’s left of who I was before Branwen ever put her hands on me.

But the words don’t come. They never do. So I just sit on the edge of the bed that no longer feels like mine, staring at my hands, and wondering what happens when Luna comes for me and I can’t give her what she needs.

Because this time, there is no choice that doesn’t end in pain.

Silas launches at me like a feral cat with a sugar high and no regard for personal space.

One second, I’m braced against the headboard, lost in my own sick spiral. The next, I’m flat on my back with a very wet, very chaotic Sin straddling me like we’re in the middle of a wrestling match and not an emotional breakdown. His fingers dig into my sides, knuckles sharp and merciless. I jerk violently, teeth clenched, but it’s no use—heknows. The bastardknowsexactly where to aim.

“Silas—” I wheeze, trying to twist out from under him, “—I swear on your favorite fucking hoodie, I will burn it in front of you if you don’t get off me right now.”

“That hoodie has already seen your tears, Cas.” He grins, wild and unrepentant. “It deserves a medal, not a cremation.”

I curse, trying not to laugh. I’m losing. Not just the upper hand, but the mental spiral too—he’s dragging me out of it, one ticklish prod at a time, and I hate that it’s working.

“Why—” I gasp between sharp inhales, “—are your hands this clammy? Do youmarinatein pond water?”

“I bathe in chaos,” he replies, matter-of-fact. “And occasionally in the blood of my enemies. But mostly—” He digs his thumbs into my ribs, making me flail. “—in your fucking misery, Lust Boy.”

“Get. Off.”

He doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t. Silas never does the thing you ask. He does the thing youneed, and usually in the most obnoxious, infuriating, inappropriate way imaginable. And right now? Apparently what I need is to be tackled by a gremlin in human skin until I laugh myself sick.

“You’re not allowed to implode on me,” he says after a moment, quieter now. Still perched on my stomach like a smug gargoyle, but something in his voice sobers. “You implode on Riven? Sure. He’ll probably punch you into next week and call it a bonding experience. You implode on Elias? He’ll roast you for it, then write a sad poem about it in his head. But me?” His smile falters, just a flicker. “You don’t get to implode onme, Cas. That’s not the deal.”

I stare up at him, chest rising with uneven breaths, the ache behind my ribs dulling into something else. “You don’t even know what I’m falling apart over.”

“I don’t have to.” He shrugs. “You’re still my favorite slut.”

I bark out a laugh—half-raw, half-exhausted. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I’m Silas,” he corrects, leaning in until his hair flops into my face. “And you, Lust God of the year, are mine to babysit until further notice.”

“Why the fuck would anyone putyouin charge ofanything?”

He grins, wicked and warm. “Because I don’t give up on my people, Caspian. Not even when they’re bleeding inside and pretending they aren’t.”

I let my head fall back, the ceiling above me suddenly feeling a little less oppressive. His weight is annoying, but grounding. His voice—chaos incarnate—somehow steadies the pieces that feel too sharp to carry alone.

“I’m not ready,” I whisper, and I don’t mean for it to come out.

But it does.

And Silas just nods like he’s known it all along.